If you have children you will probably relate to this father.
The names have been changed to protect the dignity of the father.
As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection.
A thick slab of ham, toasted bread, crisp lettuce, garden tomatoes and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard.
The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the picnic table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side.
“Hold Tommy (our six-week-old son) while I get my sandwich,” she said.
I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was reaching again for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers.
I love mustard. I had no napkin. I licked it off. It was not mustard.
No man ever put a baby down faster.
It was the first and only time I have sprinted with my tongue sticking out of my mouth.
With a washcloth in each hand I did the sort of routine shoeshine boys do, only I did it on my tongue.
After witnessing the entire messy incident, my wife said,
“Now you know why they call that mustard ‘Poupon.’”
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